


keep on missing you

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dead Josh, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Masturbation, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Fantasy, Survivor Guilt, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-24 08:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16171622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: Sam finally has some time to herself, so she decides to use it to give herself some love.It ends with a different kind of tension.





	keep on missing you

**Author's Note:**

> yeahhhhh i know its probably a dead fandom but i replayed the game a bit ago and this was a thought that occurred to me

                It’s been a while since she’s really had some time to herself. Been a while since her parents would even leave her on her own for more than a couple minutes. Been a while since she’s had more than an hour’s break from overwhelming thoughts of everything that happened – or worse, having to talk about them.

 

                So, given this opportunity, she isn’t going to squander it. As she makes her way to her room, she smirks a little, wondering if she should treat herself to something special. Maybe she could put on some of her fancier underwear, the kind with the lace that makes her feel sexy. It’s the kind that feels good against her fingertips, especially when she imagines that its somebody else, appreciating the feeling of it, the sight of her in it. Maybe she could even light some candles, put on some music so she can’t hear anything –

 

                – _candles going out suddenly, swears she saw something, “Guys?” wait, where are her clothes?_ –

 

                On second thought, maybe won’t. It’s not like she _has_ to do any of that stuff to get in the mood for some self-love. It’s just… she used to. Liked to.

 

                Shaking off those thoughts, of memories she is tired of dealing with, she settles on her bed. She lies on her back above the covers and stares up at the ceiling, a hand idly running down from her chest. She wonders what to think about. It isn’t like she’d _have_ to, she could probably just rub one out with her only focus being on touch, but… with fantasies, it’s quicker, better.

 

                Been a while since she’s _gotten_ the opportunity to think about it, imagine.

 

                Her thoughts wander to the things she typically does think about, things she already knows she likes. Her hand slips lower, underneath her bottoms, right over the front of her panties. Her legs seem to separate on their own, her breath sucking in, deep and full in her lungs. _Yeah_. That’s already a good thought.

 

                _His_ hands on her. Her waist, holding her against him, grounding himself, holding her just to hold. _His_ thumbs, pressing into her hipbones and dragging, making little, lazy circles in her skin. _His_ lips, his mouth, his tongue, moving from her own to trail down her neck, taking his time, kissing and tasting her.

 

                (Lifting her free hand, she pushes two fingers into her own mouth, getting them wet enough to feel like it’s _him_ when she slides them down the path he would make.)

 

                _He_ focuses on the spots that she reacts well to, humming when she arches against him, his body solid and warm. _He_ takes his time, but finds his way to her chest, where the skin is soft, sensitive, and he slows further. _He_ whispers her name, especially when she says his first, voice in awe, he’s just as affected.

 

                “ _Sam_ ,” _he_ whispers, mouth full of her, but she can hear him clearly.

 

                She whispers back, “ _Josh_ …”

 

                – _“Josh!” and he’s dead, oh, oh god, she’s going to be sick, he’s **dead** , and there’s blood **everywhere** , a deep, unrecognizable laugh, “How does that make you feel?” _–               

 

                And just like that, the spell is broken.

 

                Eyes flipping open, she rips her hand out of her pants in an abrupt movement, and twists onto her side. Air rips through her throat, lungs, and her chest compresses, squeezes so tight, painful. She can’t breathe and she doesn’t know what she’s looking at, can’t calm down, can’t think. _Hurts, hurts, hurts_ and _dead, dead, dead_ ring both in her head, loud and impossible to ignore.

 

                Because he is – dead, that is. Even if it isn’t the way she thought originally. And her last day, last moments with him are of these memories. Ones of him terrorizing her, of her discovering how much help he needed, that she _couldn’t_ provide for him, of him out of his mind and her heart bursting out of her chest. Him, screaming, so scared, so terrified, and _fuck_ , that’s the way he _died_.

 

                Scared and alone, with only monsters and hallucinations to keep him company.

 

                (She knows she would have died too, but in times like this, when its only herself to hear, she wishes she hadn’t have left. That they said fuck the time limit they had, and she’d stuck with him. But those are dangerous thoughts, and useless, so she keeps them to herself.)

 

                _Stop – stop fucking thinking about it._

 

                Once she’s calmed herself more, her heart finally a normal pace that doesn’t hurt with every thump, she shifts, reaching for her phone. With shaky hands, she unlocks it and opens up her pictures, looking for Josh’s folder. There, the first (the last) one, is him posing for her, because she told him she didn’t have enough pictures of him. He’d acted reluctant at the time, rolling his eyes and calling her _a sap_ , but had relented. Still, then, and even now, she can see the smile in his eyes, something she could capture, a glimmer of his happiness, before it would melt away like it was known to do after – after the first time they left that mountain with lesser numbers than they came.

 

                She reaches out like she’s going to stroke a finger down his cheek but stops, simply letting her thumb graze against her phone case instead. A heavy tear finally rolls off her face and lands on her arm, but she ignores it, focusing on his eyes, that last second, and making sure her shivering breaths are just stable enough not to let her spiral again.

 

                As much as it hurts, it doesn’t feel like he’s gone sometimes, especially when she stares at pictures like this, even if she knows he is. He’s gone and there’s nothing she can do about it.


End file.
